


Mosaic

by scheherezade34



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Canon, Child Abuse, Episode Related, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, No Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-12-02
Updated: 2004-12-09
Packaged: 2018-12-26 20:10:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12066108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scheherezade34/pseuds/scheherezade34
Summary: Brian and Justin tend to go places for each other that they'd never approach by themselves.Separate tiles put together making a larger picture.Timeline:  starts after 405, mostly post season 4.  There are time gaps between some chapters.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from IrishCaelan, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Brian_Justin_Fanfiction_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in September 2017. I posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/bjfic/profile).

Thanks to Betas Beth and Alli

* * *

BRIAN

A heap in a puddle of blood? No.

No.

Come on, Justin. You always choose life.

You HAVE to choose life.

Right now that means choosing to stop running round the streets at night with a gang looking for trouble. 

Running round the streets at night with a gun.

 

Wish you'd hurry up and get it right before …… Stop.

Stop thinking.

If you don't get it right there are only a few ways it can end.

….. Which would be worst?

Stop. 

Don't think. Watch the sportscast. 

_Brown bodies wearing just a little bit of Lycra leaping out through the waves. Broad shoulders, tiny waists, muscled thighs_ \- should be easy to get into this. 

_"Welcome to the fourth round of the Surf Life Saving Championship's ‘Iron Man’ competition. We’ve joined the telecast just in time to see the contestants enter the water on today’s first leg, the swimming leg. A strong swell is running, causing unpredictable conditions that will really challenge these champions. As our competitors try to get out through the shallower water over the sandbar they will have to swim through four lines of breakers crashing down almost to the sand."_

A heap in a puddle of blood? 

Like before? 

Or worse?

Stop. 

Watch the gorgeous wet hunks.

_"The swimmers to the north are doing well, but those who chose a more southern route are running into serious trouble. A set of big waves is catching some of our strongest swimmers in the "drop zone," where the dumpers are knocking our champions to the bottom, and washing them back towards the shore . As soon as the swimmers fight their way back to the surface they’re having to swim as hard as they can even though they're in oxygen deprivation. They’re desperate to gain what distance they can or they will be in almost the same place as before when the next wave hits. A real test of character and endurance is unfolding here, folks. They're all elite contenders out there, but the waves are pushing even these champions to their limits."_

_Flashing arms, mouths gasping for breath._

Prison? 

Stop.

Justin - in prison? He'd ….. 

He’d be ….Stop.

Stop. 

Hang on to the television.

_"The leaders are rounding the buoys now, and heading back towards the shore. This should be exciting, folks, because with these big rollers coming in over the bar swimmers back in the field could easily overtake the front runners if only they can catch the right wave. Oh, look at this - the leaders have made a break ahead of the main group, but they've been swimming hard while the waves have been a little quieter. And now here comes a better set of waves that the rest of the pack can catch further out! They're big! Will they risk going for them? Yes! It's ….."_

Or Justin maiming or killing someone and getting away with it? 

And having to live with that? That caring kid, with me to help him. 

Fucking lot of help I'd be.

Stop.

 

_"The first competitors are already grabbing their surf skis and paddles to head back out on today's second leg. These long thin light surf skis will be very difficult to control in today's heavy conditions."_

_Bodies dripping with salt water and sweat, twisting strongly from those tiny waists as they propel their skis out through the shore break. Paddles flashing and biceps bulging._

Which would be worst?

Which would be easier for me to deal with?

Which would I prefer? 

…. That's fucked. 

Fuck. 

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. 

Wish I could. 

But if I had a trick here Justin wouldn't come in. 

And If I went out to trick I mightn't be here if ……. 

when…….

Stop. Watch the bodies.

_Broken boats being washed back to shore. Swimmers walking out disconsolate._

_"Those still in the race still have the surfboard leg to go…..". Guys kneeling on boards reaching way forward to dig into the water with the next stroke. Wet with tight asses in not much stretch Lycra._

What could I do?

What could we do? 

If ….? Stop.

_"And after the two leaders on the points score have been wiped out by the big surf here the results today could make major changes to the overall championship …._

A heap in a puddle of blood?

_..standings. The first competitors have rounded the buoys and are heading back to shore, and it's all going to depend on the break - who can take advantage of these big conditions and pick up the first…"_

Rumble. 

It's my door. 

He's here. Pink sleeveless t-shirt, open combat shirt and trousers, bristly head. He walks in, takes a few steps forward as he looks around and finds me sprawled on the sofa, then stops and gazes towards me.

It's happened. 

I've no idea what has happened, but it has. 

It seems he has no idea what to say or do next. Actually, he's standing there like he's lost all concept of what spoken language is.

 

And I'm so good at personal communication. 

Do I even want to know what he obviously can't tell me? 

 

I never could deal with this stuff. I'll just …

 

It's Justin.

And he's come here.

What can I say that won't make him just disappear again? He's done that a lot lately.

Well, staring at each other isn't getting anywhere, and Justin doesn't seem to have any ideas. 

What else?

My gaze travels round my loft and settles on his art gear. Maybe. Well, it is a medium he's used to communicating through. I walk over and pick up a couple of tubes of paint and his palette. Not blood red. Couldn't bear that. OK, pink posse pink. 

There's some use in advertising experience, at least I know how to get near a color I want.

 

JUSTIN

I suppose I hoped he would say something silly or snarky or angry so I could just react and we could get tangled up in the drama of that and I wouldn't have to think about saying anything meaningful. After all, this is Brian. But he hasn't said a word. He's just looking at me. 

He hasn't come near me or said anything, he’s just waiting. 

I don't even know why I came here.

Eventually he winds himself up from the sofa; eases to his feet and wanders over to my gear; and mixes up something on my palette. Then, for the first time, he comes near me, takes my elbow and walks me over to my easel. The color he'd mixed is close to the color of the Pink Posse shirt. It'd dry wrong but it’s OK now. 

He puts the brush in my hand, turns me towards the blank canvas on my easel, then moseys off and folds back down onto the sofa. 

Well, since there’s a slight pause in our scintillating conversation, I suppose I might as well. 

Start with the pink posse t-shirt …………….

 

………………………….. and stand back and look at what I'd roughly painted. 

The pink t-shirt is there, but it segues into a big pink tongue, dominating the centre of the picture, dominating the face in the picture. There’s a black gun in the face’s mouth, of course, but where the bullet should be bursting out of the back of the head, there’s the round end a foreshortened baseball bat, crashing and breaking the back of the skull.

At first glance the whole thing might seem like a clown's face in a sideshow game - red and black and pink - but the heavy brush strokes, the gun and the bat, and the flying red and white of the back of the skull, switch the painting to an expression of violence. My violence. 

I don't want to paint any more.

I don't want to talk to Brian.

I don't particularly want to be me right now. 

For some reason I do want to shove Brian's face in my mess. So I walk over to where he’s watching the television and pull him up. Still without a word between us I take him over to my picture. Turn him around till he faces it.

 

His face is as immovable as it has been since I entered the loft, but I feel his body tighten, not much, as though he was already braced but something he was expecting was getting closer.

For some reason that breaks the spell, and with both of us standing there staring at the painting, not each other, I tell him. 

“Cody and I. We found Chris Hobbs. Well, Cody found where he lived and we went round. Hobbs was petrified. Once he saw the gun he was shaking, scared shitless. He would’ve done anything I said.

“I told him to kneel down.

“I told him to open his mouth.

“He let me put the gun in his mouth.”

Brian’s just standing there, taking it all.

“I couldn’t. I think I meant to, but I couldn’t pull the trigger.”

I'd taken the gun out of Hobbs' mouth and walked away with Cody yelling after me that I hadn't the courage of my convictions.

Brian’s keeping the same face he's worn all night, but something’s let go. There’s no movement on the surface, just some deep quiet release.

And now I have nothing to say again.

I still can't decide for myself whether I was a coward; or whether I'd realized that killing Hobbs wouldn’t fix the damage he’d done to me; or whether I'd grasped that stopping Hobbs wouldn't stop my being angry.

Brian’s still standing there. Eventually he says in a constricted voice, "You **had** to choose ….."

Silence.

He looks from me to the painting to me.

"You're still angry."

"Maybe."

"Yep."

"Maybe. Maybe I'll always be angry with Hobbs. It's not finished, and I haven't got past it no matter how much you expect me to pretend that I'm fine."

" **Me** , expect **you** to pretend?"

"You brush me off whenever I get anywhere near the subject of Hobbs. You pretend my nightmares don't happen. You keep on talking about putting things behind you and getting on with life." 

"It's not just Hobbs you're angry with."

“You can't control how I feel about this all this shit!"

Brian stares at me, astounded. He takes a few aimless steps and opens his hands out sideways. "Justin, this is me, Brian 'it's your call' Kinney. Why the fuck would you think I was trying to control how you dealt with anything at all?"

"I just said it! You brush me off whenever I get anywhere near the subject of Hobbs. You pretend my nightmares don't happen. You frown whenever my hand bothers me, but then tell me it's not important when my hand slows down my work." 

Brian paces again, looks around and back at me. "But why should what I do make you think I'm trying to control what you do? In fact, when have you ever done what I directly told you to? Let alone finding it compulsory to act exactly according to my opinions!"

He pauses, glances out the dark window for inspiration, then back at me. "You have to do what's right for you. I've always said that. Right?"

"You always talk about putting things behind you and getting on with life."

"That's what works for me. But, Justin, I don't want to control you. If going over old stuff and dealing with this shit is what's right for you then deal with it. But without fucking guns."

"You've never helped me to."

Brian moves again, shrugs. He gazes from the violent painting to my probably angry face and back again.

"Justin." He takes a deep breath and starts again. "It's not that I want to control how you deal with it. It's that I don't know how to do this shit." 

"You're an intelligent man."

"Maybe, but, Justin, I could get 95% in Psych 399 tomorrow, or know exactly which buttons to push in an ad campaign, but knowing the theory isn't the point. It's living it. I don't help you when you expect it, or know when to bring things up, or know when you need to work through something because I didn't live that way. 

"I just don't know how to do it in ordinary life. I didn't grow up learning all that 'dealing with it' or 'working through something' crap, because … because when I was a kid, I wasn't round people who dealt with shit reasonably, or resolved anything, or worked together through anything."

He hesitates, looks at my face, searches out the window for help, faces me again and eventually continues, "For me, it was like those swimmers in the drop zone on the sand bar," he says, waving a hand towards the flickering television, "getting knocked under by those waves again."

He’s silent, then eventually comes out with, " With Jack, there was always another hit coming. Next day or next month or next hour.

"So like those swimmers, I got moving as fast as possible trying to get as far as possible before the next hit came, even before I could breathe again.

"I didn't stop to reflect or work through anything; I just tried to get on with doing as much as possible towards what would eventually get me out of there.

"Working through or reflecting or discussing .. it's not the way I lived.”

He runs his fingers through his hair, then shrugs, "So you're on your own, Justin. It's not that I think I know best how you should behave; it's just that I have no idea how to do it any other way but the way I lived it. No idea how to do that dealing crap in real life."

Um. I thought I was the one digging up old shit.

He goes on, "But you need to do whatever it takes to get things right for you. If you have to tell me I'm being a useless prick, tell me." 

 

I’m still resentful, "So I'm the one trying to deal with my shit but I'm supposed to be together enough to be your life coach."

A flicker of a rueful grin crosses his face. "Sound pretty cracked. Maybe you can just kick me in the shins to tell me to wake up and now's the time to apply the theory."

And here I am again with not a word to say.

Brian has stopped, too. And we gaze at each other again in silence.

Eventually, he shrugs.

Then he goes over to the easel, puts my painting against the wall and sets up a fresh canvas. He mixes up a yellowish color this time, gives it to me and says, "It's pretty crap but it's supposed to be your hair color."

Yeah, I’m angry about that too, in a weird way. We in the Pink Posse had all cut our hair to show the breeders we weren't soft fairies. That we were tough and hard and to be reckoned with. My mum, Debbie, Emmett and the rest of our little Liberty Street family had mourned the loss of my long blond hair.

But Brian had to be different. 

Before, when my hair was long, his fingers always seemed to be finding their way into it. His fingers would thread through the strands on the back of my head when we walked along the street. He'd grab chunks of it when we fucked, pulling my head round so his lips had access to my neck. He'd twine it round his fingers when we talked afterwards. He'd breathe in the scent of it or I'd notice his eyes rest on it when I moved into the sunlight. 

So when I shaved my head I thought he'd be seriously pissed.

Not Brian. 

Instead, his long sensitive fingers, his lips and his tongue explored my scalp. I hadn't really realized till he touched me that the skin of my head had always been covered. I wasn't at all used to being touched there. I'd never felt so naked as those times when he'd stroked, licked and kissed my head. I'd felt as vulnerable as a baby.

Not at all a tough defender of Liberty Avenue. 

And he hadn’t even been trying to make it a power game. He was just enjoying the sensations he could evoke in me.

So, start with blond hair and back to the pink for bald-as-a-baby heads…..

……………………………….

Again, on the surface, this picture appears to be a carnival. The blond and pink heads had turned into balloons, floating free way above the ground, no strings controlling them.

The ground way below is covered with mazes - mirror mazes and hedged mazes and jungle gym-type adventure courses. And footprints are marked round the mazes - every single one of them the same sneaker-type print.

The air in between seems too empty, somehow, as though I still have something to paint there. There are fireworks bursting and storms flashing lightning - quite dramatic. If you look properly you can see they are actually outside the carnival grounds - you see through the carnival to see the storms and fireworks beyond.

 

So, what do I think about this painting?

I suppose it’s obvious, it’s about who controls what with Brian and me. As Brian asked, did I really think he expected me to be controlled by his opinions? Brian always had strong opinions, but where did that finish, and "you choose, Sunshine" start?

Well, starting with those balloons floating so free and out of control. Most of the time I'm going to feel out of control and vulnerable when we're fucking. 

Good. 

Brian might think my thinking is fucked, but it's not that fucked. My feeling totally out of control when Brian's fucking me is great. 

I’m angry at Brian's ravishing my bare head because, unlike everybody else, he didn't react by regretting the loss of my long blond hair. Everyone else had really been been saying I seemed tougher now, when they said they missed my soft good looks. But Brian hadn't automatically validated my new tough status, he’d just said I was hot and fucked me. 

Mind you, Brian has always said that I was the strongest person he knew. And he won’t say what he doesn’t mean. So maybe it’s unfair to blame him for not recognizing my new toughness if he always thought I was tough. 

So, to the maze. My footprints making every single right or left or straight ahead decision. Alone, or lonely, or solely. (It's irritating what terrible puns a visual imagination produces sometimes.)

I’m mad about the "lonely" bit, but I suppose that comes with the independence.

But control?

Yep. Definitely "you choose, Sunshine" when it comes to me making every decision about where my life is going. To PIFA, Ethan (yeah, my so romantic mistake), to Brian, or even to the streets with Cody.

 

The other stuff, the storms and fireworks outside our private carnival or rollercoaster or whatever. Am I mad with Brian when he can't help me? When Rage doesn't fly to the rescue? Like the bashing? 

Or am I mad with him because I needed him to rescue me those times that he could? With the shelter of his loft or computers or fees or reassuring hands in the night or whatever? Because if I need him to rescue me then that means he’s the one in control?

Which was I angry with Brian for? Rescuing me or not rescuing me? 

Both. 

Well, why not?

If my thinking is fucked it might as well be seriously fucked.

 

I’m still angry about his not visiting me in hospital, of course, but that doesn't matter because he deserves it. 

 

Anyway, back to speaking of fucking. Where is Brian?

Sound asleep on the sofa. On his back. One arm folded across his body and the other fallen towards the floor. One leg dangling over the end of the sofa, and the other sprawling off the side. His head has flopped to the side and his mouth is slightly open - he is even snoring. 

I can’t remember ever seeing him so heavily asleep.

When I think about it, he'd been awake every time I got back to the loft, no matter how late it had been. And often I haven't come back at all.

 

He can sleep when he’s dead.

 

I move over to him, slipping down onto the floor beside him.

Even when I quietly slide down the zipper of his jeans, his slow, steady breathing doesn't change.

His dick and balls start to stir, though, as I move a hand soooo lightly over them. I don't often get a chance to see them so flaccid. Moving him as little as possible, I ease his jeans down. It’s fun watching the skin on his balls ripple and his dick fill as I very slowly bring them to life. His cock starts to look uncomfortable curled the way it is, so I ease it out straight.

Now, 

Can I get him to cum before he wakes up?

How many times can I get him to cum before he holds me down and fucks me into the floor?


	2. Mosaic

She couldn't really be that bad. It just wasn't possible for that loud, red-wigged disaster area really to be as bad as she had been every single time I've watched her work in my diner.

I bought this diner after I decided to move back to Pittsburgh. The previous owner showed me honest accounts, and had honest reasons for selling. He also honestly assured me he had reliable, experienced staff who could carry on as I eased into my new business.

I could have bought four other businesses and still been near Liberty Avenue and I had to pick this one.

She's been on the payroll for years, and she can't have kept the job because she was fucking someone, because the last guy who owned it was queer, too. Apart from her red wig, chewing gum and clown fashion sense.

The owner also sold me his apartment, above the shop next to the diner. He'd told me that the front corner windows were a good place to keep an unobtrusive eye on the diner, looking down through one of its high ventilation windows. On this balmy summer night both my and the diner windows were open, and I could even hear conversations. It wasn't completely spying, because I could only see some of the public seating area, and all the staff knew that this was my apartment.

So here I was, sitting quietly hoping to catch one of my most experienced shift managers doing something - anything! - right.

Weary of the dropped plates, muddled orders and unpredictable tears, I turned my head and watched the lamp lit street for a while.

It looked like the start of a movie.

A beautifully proportioned, tall dark-haired man was leaning against one of the lampposts, waiting. He was impeccably turned out - probably Armani, though I'd need daylight or a closer look to be sure.

As I watched, a younger guy in typical student clothes walked up to him with a beaming smile. The lamplight caught his blond hair as he tipped back his head for a kiss. He was younger than the other guy, just a twink.

It wasn't an intense kiss, but it was good. The way their bodies relaxed together with their hips fitting just right, and the way Armani Suit's hand lifted into The Twink's hair to tilt his head to the perfect angle.

They turned and walked towards the diner, and their conversation drifted up to me. 

"……took me three extra hours and I had to ask for an extension."

"You got it the way you wanted, didn't you?"

"Yep."

"OK."

The Twink's expression suddenly darkened. He turned and actually kicked the taller guy on the shin. The Armani Suit guy had just brushed his jacket shoulder to ensure no speck of lamp post dust had adhered to the beautiful cloth, and now a sneaker had contaminated the pant leg. Heavens knows what residue from Liberty Avenue could have gone from the twink's sneaker to that suit.

Armani Suit paused, and instead of bitching about infantile behavior, studied The Twink.

"What?"

"You never bother about my hand."

"Not true. Half the time it's you who pull away from me when I'm trying to massage away a spasm."

"Yeah. Well, you worry too much when it's shaking. It's the other stuff you don't bother about."

"What other stuff?"

"I just said. It took me three extra hours and I had to beg for an extension."

"And you got it the way you wanted it." That was a statement, not a question.

"Ye-e-s."

"Yes or no?"

"As much as anything I do is the way I thought it'd turn out. But I lost all that time. And had to beg."

"Who cares?"

"ME! You asshole. It's not the pain that gets me; it's the lack of control. It messes up how I want to do things."

"Justin, you just said, the hard part is getting it the way you envisage it. From an idea in your mind to a single image. And you probably have no idea, but the even harder part is envisaging something of meaning in the first place."

"Romantic bullshit."

"Fact."

"Huh. I can't do things the way I want to."

"Who cares? 

“You get it right. That's what matters; not what it takes."

"I LOSE stuff and so much time because my hand shakes and scribbles over it!"

"So buy fast drying paints or charcoal setting spray so you just lose the last ten minutes."

The Twink stomped on into the diner, and Armani Suit shrugged and followed.

Luckily for my continued entertainment, they settled in a booth I could see and hear from my side window.

Armani Suit had settled along the booth with his feet on the seat. The Twink was opposite, where I could see his grumpy face. In the light of the diner he was a beautiful young thing - lithe young body, gorgeous blond hair, sparkling blue eyes. I couldn't see much of Armani Suit, as his back was to me.

However, I couldn't really understand what such an obvious achiever as Armani Suit (yep, I was fairly sure it really was Armani) saw in such a …….twink.

"I never thought I'd see the day when I'd hear you say such sappy lesbionic stuff as 'it doesn't matter dear as long as you're happy in the end'," The Twink muttered.

Armani Suit's shoulders shook. "Does Michelangelo's David have a sign on it saying 'It's not really any good because it took three years to complete?'"

"Fuck you."

"Do all those Giverney paintings have signs on them saying this lily pond is better than that one over there because Monet finished it quicker? Or the opposite - that that one's better because it took longer?"

"Fuck you," this time with the grace of a reluctant grin. Then came the next scowl, "David took three years but at least Michelangelo didn't have to worry about a fucking shaky hand chopping the nose off."

"Glue it back on."

"It'd never be the same."

"Then you shouldn't like David'."

"Fuck you." This twink was definitely an articulate conversationalist. 

"Some nut smashed it and it’s been glue back together."

"I HAVE remembered that."

"What'll it be, boys? And get those feet off the seat." My red-wigged disaster cruised in and whacked Armani Suit on the side of the head.

Wonder of wonders, she'd done it. 

Anyone who could get someone wearing an Armani suit to get his feet off my seats without him flouncing out in a self-important huff was the sort of employee I needed in Liberty Avenue. 

I'd give her a bit of time to see if she could get back to some sort professional standard before I told her I wanted her to stay on. It'd be better if she could get back on top of it by herself. But she was definitely in.

"A cheeseburger with fries and a chocolate milkshake, please Deb."

"Chicken salad, hold the mayo, please Deb.…..  
It's just the same for me, Justin. I can work for weeks trying to get an ad campaign right, and if it doesn't click with the public the ad doesn't stay out there. But I could have filmed that canoe ad for that brewery with Deb's old video camera using Michael and Ben, and it still would have gained the massive goodwill that it created. And that was just a crazy idea in a shower. It's not the effort that goes into it that counts; it's how long it lives when it's done."

"Which shower was that?"

Armani Suit's shoulders shook again. "What makes you think, Sunshine, that any shower I had with you would make me think of dicks the size of canoes?"

"Anyway, it's not the same. I'm not trying to make stuff that will last forever; I'm just trying to get through my course."

"Bullshit."

"And even if I wanted to, I'd never be able to work in stone."

"This is the twenty-first century. Makita has to be good for something besides keeping breeders busy at the weekend."

"Power tools!"

"Or modern composition stone."

"Gross. How tacky can you get? How could that ever have the same feel as genuine stone?"

"Bye the way, remind me to pick up some eggs and oil and squid ink on the way home, Sunshine."

"SQUID INK?"

"Well that's what you need to make authentic, true-to-tradition blue paint, isn't it?"

"Fuck you!"

Armani Suit's shoulders shook again. He turned his head towards the clangs in the kitchen and then asked idly, "At PIFA did you ever try making those recipes the masters used?"

"No, it's not worth it. Using organic stuff like eggs means that after a while they deteriora …… Fuck you!"

Red Wig plunked two plates in front of them. Looked like cheeseburger and turkey sandwich on rye.

"Uh, Deb. I asked for a chicken salad."

Red Wig grabbed the plates and dashed off, disregarding The Twink's yelps of "Hey, mine was fine!"

The Twink looked younger than ever as he watched his burger vanish. Then with a mercurial change of mood he turned back and said in a sing-song voice, "You said it was just the same for you," with a big beaming smile. God, this twink was such a kid.

Armani Suit's shoulders tightened, "I just meant that the effort involved in getting something right isn't the important bit. That's all."

"You don't try to create something which will stay in the public mind, starting with just an abstract idea in your head? Which you have to pull out of nowhere?"

The Twink actually had Armani Suit on the defensive.

"Fuck it Justin. There's no comparison between a fifteen second ad selling crap to kids and…."

The cheeseburger reappeared and was clunked on the table - still no fries or milkshake. "Sorry Sunshine. It's just ……" Red Wig plopped down beside The Twink and buried her face in her hands. "Um, you need your turkey on rye, Brian. Did you want mayonnaise?"

The Twink looked at Armani Suit, who nodded and stood up. He hauled Red Wig up out of her seat, took off her cap and perched it precariously on The Twink's bright locks. Her apron was removed with suspicious efficiency, and she was unceremoniously hauled out of the diner. Meanwhile The Twink headed for the kitchen with the apron over his shoulder. 

Uh oh. I wasn't sure a grumpy sixteen-year-old twink was any substitute even for my red wigged disaster.

However, while Red Wig sobbed under the lamplight outside, I was treated to a transformation. The Twink returned in an apron that fitted, which I greatly appreciated because it would have been a shame to cover up his beautiful ass (that hadn't been within my view before) with layers of pink gingham. He proceeded to sort out the confusion of muddled and missed orders with sashays of that ass and beautiful smiles. He cheered and distracted the customers so much that I think they were almost disappointed if they had been served correctly before and so didn't need his attention. The bad tempered clangs from the kitchen muted, and Kiki on the till stopped scowling at muddled little heaps of paper. Maybe he was a little older than sixteen. Definitely interesting.

Outside, the sobs had turned into incoherent speech. Something about a Mikey not needing her any longer because he had his own family, someone (smothered in a sob) being gone and now she wasn't even needed in the diner. Armani Suit leaned against the lamppost and gazed down the street as she sobbed and talked and hunted for tissues and blew her nose. 

A call from down the street distracted both of them, and Red Wig blew her nose one last time, hauled Armani Suit's head down to plant an unwelcomed kiss on the side of his face, and said, "It's the boys. I'd better go rescue Sunshine."

SHE needed to rescue SUNSHINE?

Anyway, she seemed to have worked her way to a saner state of mind, and it was definitely time I made a little closer acquaintance of Armani Suit and The Twink.

By the time I entered the diner and made my hellos to Deb, 'the Boys,' whoever they were, had established themselves in two booths with Armani Suit and TheTwink 

For the first time Deb talked to me in coherent sentences, "Mr. Johnson. It's good to see you tonight. I'll be able to introduce you to my son and his friends."

I'd taken note of her son before - Comic Book Guy.

"Boys, I'd like you to meet the new owner of the diner, Philip Johnson.

"This is my son Michael Novotny, his partner Ben Bruckner, and friends Justin Taylor and Brian Kinney. And Emmett and Ted are in the back over there."

Whoah.

It was the first time I'd seen Armani Suit's face. 

I knew him. 

Well, I recognized his face; still astoundingly beautiful years later; this time with focused eyes.

It wasn't surprising I hadn't recognized him before, without seeing his face. The last time we'd met he hadn't been wearing a suit. He hadn't been wearing anything.

I never thought I'd see him again. I never thought he'd survive this long. Survive? To do well enough to wear Armani suits on an ordinary Wednesday night wasn't something I would have thought at all possible of the person I'd encountered back then. 

Well, more and more interesting. 

What should I say? If he remembered anything, he probably wouldn't be happy to know I recalled that evening at all.

Armani Suit - Kinney (I couldn't call him Armani Suit any more when my memories of no suit at all were so strong) forestalled me.

"We've met, I think. A long time ago. You rescued me from a bad situation, didn't you?"

Right up front. That's unexpected.

"Well, yes."

"I don't think I thanked you." Another surprise.

"You're welcome."

Kinney hesitated, looked at me as if recalling something, then glanced at Deb. He obviously thought better of saying something and stayed quiet.

This was fun. We didn't have to pretend we didn't know each other or that we didn't remember things about each other, but the rest haven't been told anything really. Masterly.

And interesting too, the others' reactions. This was so entertaining.

Comic Book Guy was scowling possessively, almost as though if there had been any rescuing to be done he should have done it. I thought he was with the Ben guy?

On the other hand, TheTwink, well, The Not-So-Twink, was showing me how he earned his nickname. I've never seen such a beautiful smile. Obviously any rescuer of Kinney's had his wholehearted acceptance. 

Interesting to note that he felt no need to ask how Kinney had needed to be rescued. He must know enough of Kinney's past to know that needing to be rescued was a possibility, and that the details weren't really important. But not many would refrain from asking.

Comic Book Guy and the boys in the back stall were asking questions, but getting no answers from Kinney, who just occupied himself with his chicken salad.

Well, in my role as disinterested owner of this establishment, I thought it was about time I moved on.

A pity, but I'm sure there'd be more installments.

Maybe buying this diner was a good idea after all.


	3. Mosaic

With any luck I would see installment two tonight. Not-So-Twink was working his first shift for to me. So far the blond's working of the diner hadn't been as spectacular as his impromptu performance the other night, but it was a pleasure to watch, anyway. 

And here came Kinney, in Liberty Avenue dress tonight - leather jacket, open-necked button-up shirt and impossibly sexy jeans. Just why they looked so sexy I'm not quite sure. They were the right label of course, but they weren’t too tight. They were definitely filled out in all the right places, but that wasn't the whole answer. They just didn't look the same on him as they would have looked on any other man here tonight.

Kinney settled down in his favorite booth and ordered a coffee. He seemed to be just comfortably passing time until Not-So-Twink finished his shift. 

That is, until Armani Suit tucked a piece of paper in my back pocket as I walked past his booth.

Stunned, I glanced at The Not-So-Twink. Kinney didn't give me the impression of being interested in picking me up. Though from some of the discussions I'd overheard, many of the diner's regulars thought Kinney was always on the prowl for any likely trick. 

The blond had seen Kinney's action, and my glance. He shrugged at me, rolled his eyes and went on his way. Well, that didn't tell me much. But I thought I'd open the note in private rather than under the fascinated eyes of the diners who seemed to have a tendency to treat Armani Suit and Not-So-Twink as their own private (or not so private) soap opera. Just like me.

I unfolded the paper outside. It looked like a newspaper cutting.

Obituary

Vic Grassi.

Oh.

Well, that settled that.

No need to look him up.

After I'd read through the article I slowly became aware of a quiet figure. He seemed to make a habit of leaning against that lamppost saying nothing while people fell apart nearby.

"You remembered I .. knew him."

"Mmmmm."

"You were right, I had planned to look him up, but I thought I'd get the diner settled first."

"Deb's his sister. I thought you'd better know before it turned into a melodrama."

"I knew he had a sister. Deb Novotny? God. Melodrama would have been an understatement.”

“She’s a good woman. Held Vic together single-handedly for quite a few years. But yeah, melodramatic.”

Just then, Not-So-Twink came out. Peeping over his shoulder were some inquisitive eyes underneath a familiar red wig. It looked like my shift manager’s curiosity was driving her wild.

"Deb said this stank too much to put in the diner's bins," the blond gestured with the parcel in his hands, "and sent me to find a street skip." He kept walking straight past the alley to the nearby skip and headed away along the street.

We both just stood there watching him, me still trying to absorb the fact that Vic was dead. Many of our cohort had died, but Vic was still a shock.

"AIDs?"

"Sort of. Meds complications."

More quiet.

Not-So-Twink returned and would have headed straight into the diner, when Kinney said. "We were just talking about Vic."

Not-At-All-Twink stopped and looked at me. "He was a great guy. He and Deb took me in after my dad threw me out. …and other stuff happened. One thing that eased the hurt of losing my father was Vic's pretty much adopting me." 

I looked at Kinney. "You don't keep secrets from him."

Kinney's face darkened for a split second and then went blank. "I probably keep lots of secrets from him. I just try to limit them."

The Not-At-All-Twink gave him a small smile and went on into the diner without comment.

"Deb’s still missing Vic badly," Kinney went on. "One of the reasons she's even more crazy than usual."

"Yeah."

By mutual consent we both moved away then, turning back towards the diner.

 

Back in the diner, trouble had arrived. 

"…….learned a few new itches while I was Inside. And Liberty Avenue looks like a real entertaining place to scratch them." The guy speaking was big, with a still face and watchful eyes. He smiled as he spoke about 'scratching his itches', but it wasn't a smile I'd have liked to be on the receiving end of. His tattoos and the insignia patches on his leather jacket spoke of prison time, not just biker gangs. 

He lunged towards Justin, who whisked past just out of reach. "Hey bitch! Wanna help me out?"

Suddenly, Kinney was between the two of them. "I'm HIS bitch," he said flatly.

The biker paused in confusion. I wasn’t surprised. It was years since Kinney had been anyone’s bitch, and it showed in his demeanor. And the cute little blond sure didn’t give the surface impression of being Kinney’s top. 

In that moment of uncertainty, Not-So-Twink whipped his towel around Kinney's neck and, holding it like, well, like a collar, pulled Kinney out the back into the alley. 

Luckily for me, I could hear from the back booths, which needed cleaning.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

"Just backing you up."

"The last thing I need is you getting all protective of me about customers here at the diner!"

"He's dangerous."

"Not here, in public, with my friends around. And I do know how to handle customers by now."

"Your customer handling is legendary, Sunshine. And as for your other handling ….. But he's big; and looking for action."

"Brian, I am so going to enjoy reminding you of this later, but right now you're infuriating. This is the diner. And this is my job; which I've been doing for four years. So keep out if it. Sit back down and enjoy your coffee…"

"Hah!"

".. while you watch the Master at work."

And masterly it was. Not-At-All-Twink was attentive and courteous, but his megawatt smile was nowhere in evidence. He'd wrapped his best assets in Deb's apron and managed to deliver orders promptly to the biker's booth while keeping himself out of range. He used passing customers as screens so well I swear that if a basketball coach had been in the diner Not-At-All-Twink would have been signed up on the spot. 

And of course the passing customers, without ever making it obvious (that would have been against the private soap opera rules), knew exactly what was going on and weren't at all averse to having a more active role than usual. That made it easy for Not-At-All-Twink to draw the surrounding booths into a conversation that (surprise, surprise) drifted into motorbikes, drew the biker in, and eventually started making suggestions about the best bars to hit next.

Meanwhile Not-At-All -Twink went on about his work, drifting more and more into the background. And it was probably just a coincidence that every time the biker moved round the diner - to go to the bathroom or to pay his bill – Not-At-All-Twink just happened to be carrying a particularly large bin full of messier than usual dishes.

By the time Not-So-Twink's shift had finished the biker was long gone, and I'd gone back to my apartment. I couldn't sleep though. Thoughts of Vic kept me restlessly wandering round, gazing out the windows. 

I hadn't intended to eavesdrop on the pair this time as they left the restaurant. The diner soap opera was fair game, but not what they'd think was a private conversation. 

But as I said, I was restless, it was very late, and sound carried easily on the warm summer air.

Not-At-All-Twink's voice alerted me to their exit from the diner.

"And what in hell was that all about?"

"What?"

"Going all protective of me at the diner, of all places."

"You're exaggerating, Sunshine."

"You were the one with exaggerated fears. What the hell stirred you up?"

Silence.

"Brian!"

"…. The Pin… the puzzle really is why you weren't a bit scared of him but that businessman last week had you on the edge of freaking out."

"I dealt with that too."

"Yep. But last week you were close to loosing it. Not afraid of a biker stinking of prison and afraid of a businessman. That's weird." Armani Suit seemed to be steering Not-So-Twink away from Kinney's own sudden strong reaction to the biker

No-So-Twink stopped, suddenly looking very young.

"He was waving that newspaper around above his head……" he paused, and a wave of shame and embarrassment swept over his face. Armani Suit's arm had been draped across the blond's shoulders, but now Kinney's hand came up and his long fingers twined into the bright hair at the nape of Not-So-Twink's neck as he turned towards him. Kinney obviously wasn't going anywhere until Justin explained himself. 

The kid looked down to the side, away from Kinney's gaze. "It's fucked. And dumb. Even after having him kneeling in front of me with a gun in his mouth, I'm still scared of Hobbes. That newspaper waving around above that businessman's head. If I see a baseball bat waving around I'm still scared before I even think about it."

Kinney had closed his eyes in pain. Suddenly he turned away and shoved his hands in his pockets. "And as usual I'm no help whatsoever," he said bitterly. "I don't know how to not be scared either. Jack's been dead two years, and he hadn't hit me for maybe fourteen fucking years before that. But I’m still the same. All it takes is for me to suddenly get jostled, or for the light to suddenly change, and my guts freeze." 

Kinney's back was to Justin, so he didn't see the astonished relief, almost delight which made the blond look impossibly even younger. 

However his voice, warmer and surer, was back to Not-At-All-Twink status. "That's why you keep on going to Babylon. And sometimes come home in a foul mood for no reason whatsoever."

"A fucking good reason."

"Yeah. That's why I don't go near baseball games anyway. For me it's the image - seeing something like a bat held by upraised arms."

Kinney had turned back towards him as Not-At-All-Twink spoke, and again draped his arm across the blond's shoulders. He was looking down towards Justin's fair hair, and his expression, at first thoughtful, gradually filled with wicked amusement to something almost Machiavellian. 

It seemed he was again deliberately distracting Not-At-All-Twink as he asked, "What did you mean when you said that's why I go to Babylon?"

They headed off down the street.

"You could get as many tricks as even your Stud status demands without going anywhere near any place with lots of jostling and flashing lights, like Babylon. But you go to Babylon because you never run away from anything."

"Huh."

"Except yourself, of course."

"I seem to remember trying to run away from you quite a few times."

"Which proves my case!"

They were gone.

And I was left alone with memories of Vic.


	4. Mosaic

BEN

“Fuck.”

Michael was gazing towards the street, where Brian was talking to some trannies in drag. Their outfits comprised scarlet or pink corsets, briefs and suspenders, lots of black leather BDSM gear, and astoundingly high-heeled leather boots to finish off. Very privately, I thought they looked terrifying. Brian, of course, looked relaxed and was enjoying the physical contact as well as the company.

“Brian’s up to something,” Michael continued.

I did not need this. It was Pride Parade Day. I wanted to enjoy a carnival day in our community with my partner and adopted son (if he actually made an appearance) and NO preoccupations with Brian.

I love Michael. I wouldn’t change him at all. That’s not the way I am guided by my beliefs. But Michael does come with baggage, most of which is Brian Kinney. 

Just then Brian glanced down the street, and finished up what he was saying to the group, “Remember, the absolute priority is high comedy. Sight gags. Not revenge or humiliation. Keep it hilarious. Do not even attempt to second guess me on this.” His gaze checked each tranny individually to ensure they’d registered his instructions. Then with a kiss and a squeeze or two he unhurriedly eased himself out of the group and entered the diner.

“Fuck,” said Michael again, as he noted who was coming up the street. “It’s even worse. Justin doesn’t know about it.”

That might not stand logical analysis on the evidence available so far, but in our Liberty Avenue world, in matters involving Brian Kinney, Michael was in all probability correct. 

“I’m really sorry Ben. I was so looking forward to helping you get ready for the parade, but I’m going to have to keep an eye on Brian.”

“But why? Brian’s an adult and can take the consequences of his own actions.” Even before I saw Michael’s doubtful look towards me I was questioning my own statement. I didn’t think anyone really deserved to take the consequences of some of Brian’s actions, even Brian himself.

“Why you? Justin’s here.” I continued.

“If Justin doesn’t know already, Brian has made sure the he can’t do anything about it. And telling Justin something’s going on if Brian doesn’t want him to know just isn’t safe.”

Again, not logically defensible, but probably Kinney true.

“Is it really that serious? Do you have to do anything?”

“I probably won’t do anything at all.” He added darkly, “It’s just that sometimes it’s nice to know where the bodies have been buried. Or where the limbs have been thrown.”

Michael believed this and was really worried. Reasoning him out of it wouldn’t work, and it wasn’t my way to insist he stick to his plans and come with me. “Well, how about I come along with you for a while, so we can enjoy some of our day together.”

His dark eyes lit up, “I do love you,” he smiled. “You never know, I might have it all wrong and we can spend the day the way we wanted to after all.” But by the end of this sentence his eyes were troubled again and were back following Brian.

An hour or so later, the Parade had begun and I was beginning to worry about when I’d have to leave to join my own float. Brian and Justin had drifted along to a comfortable stand where they could watch the parade, and Brian had made no objection to Michael and me keeping them company. A slightly amused tongue in cheek smirk had been his only response to our tagging along. I was almost convinced his restraint was because he didn’t want Michael getting tangled up in unconvincing rationalizations.

Michael only became more apprehensive. To him, the fact that Brian didn’t care whether we were there or not merely made the situation potentially more perilous. 

Brian and Justin had found seats in the front row of the stand, and we were sitting slightly to the side behind them. As usual, the parade was a lot of fun. The gay community really showed a lot of creativity for this event, and a lot of flesh too, of course. Both were enjoyable. 

Justin, however, wasn’t enjoying this as much as the rest of us were. The trannies in the leather and scarlet BDSM gear were prancing round this area quite frequently, and they had begun waving round plastic bats as well as the usual whips and chains. They were using the bats as mock phalluses, and with the stroking, licking and rubbing that was going on, I was glad that Deb hadn’t been able to accompany us, as she’d been momentarily tempted to do. Luckily, she and Jennifer had decided to peep in on Emmett’s party preparations before meeting up with the PFLAG group, one of the last in the parade.

Justin had become restless and was making moving on noises, but Brian was more relaxed and immovable than ever. 

Michael nudged me, “Look! It’s Hobbes coming down that alley!”

Oh, no. It looked like Michael’s Kinney apprehensions had been accurate. Something was definitely brewing. Trannies who had earlier been consorting with Brian were running round with baseball bats, when usually we all knew to avoid mention or sight of the potential weapons around Justin (or Brian, for that matter). Brian was looking as relaxed as a cat waiting for its prey to blunder blindly closer. And now Hobbes and his cronies were coming down the alley to see what trouble they could stir at the Pride Parade.

It couldn’t be too dire; all the trannies were in far too gleeful a mood for anything dark to be happening. Kiki might be unusual, but he (she?) wasn’t into considering unpleasant behavior as fun.

But, in spite of that, something was definitely brewing.

What the hell could Brian be plotting?

Suddenly, all the trannies swarmed round Hobbes, poking him and prodding him with the baseball bats while they postured and made obscene suggestions. Hobbes was cut off from his friends and maneuvered out into the parade area as he backed away from one lurid figure propositioning him, then the next. The bats prodding him became even more suggestive and suddenly in anger he grabbed one.

Justin gave a muffled sob and began to get out of his seat, but suddenly Brian’s hand was hard on the back of the young man’s neck, holding his head to face the scene. Brian’s knuckles were white from the strength he was exerting.

“Don’t run. Watch!” was all he said.

Another suppressed noise came from Justin, but he did keep his eyes open.

Hobbes still had the bat, and he was getting very embarrassed and very angry. He swung the bat again, this time not to fend off unwelcome attention, but hard and fast, to hurt.

As he did, the bat burst open with a “whoomp” and suddenly swelled into an enormous inflated, anatomically correct dick and balls. Complete with a pink shaft, crimson head and lovingly detailed hairy balls.

Hobbes hadn’t noticed yet, he was still trying to stop those dancing, teasing figures somehow, anyhow. He was swinging hard with the handle still attached to the giant dick, trying to hit somebody. The trannies had changed their routine now. They were prancing round begging to be hit by the enormous phallus. One tranny had his hands on his knees and his back arched while he gazed soulfully over his shoulder, pleading for the dick. Another was doing a shimmy, shoulders back and breasts and knees open as he shouted, “Yes, yes,” and rubbed himself up and down the dick whenever it swung past.

Hobbes in horrified bemusement realized what he held in his hands and flung it away. In desperation he grabbed another bat prodding at him, and hit out with that one.

The same thing happened, except this time the dick had a lavender shaft and purple head. Again, it took Hobbes a few minutes to realize he was attempting to thrash the trannies with a giant cock.

By this time I was watching the scene with my head held in my hands, too helpless with laughter to sit up any more. 

I glanced down to see how Justin was managing.

He was curled against Brian’s side, with tears mostly of laughter running down his face. He seemed to be torn between watching every detail of the action in front of him, and hugging Brian. Brian’s arm by now was now back in its usual position draped around Justin’s shoulders.

Brian murmured to the top of Justin’s head, “I couldn’t be any help about the being scared bit, Sunshine. But as an adman I felt it my duty to overlay a few images.”

I began to be mystified by how Hobbes had made it to his senior year to bully Justin. His behavior was exhibiting very little intelligence at all. The ex-footballer actually grabbed a third bat and swung it hard (pink shaft, violet head) again before he gathered a few wits, dropped it and fled. The trannies didn’t pursue him, preferring to continue along with the parade, performing outrageous improvisations with the dicks.

Beside me, Michael wiped his eyes as he watched the disappearing back. “Well, I don’t give a fuck where that body ends up,” he said cheerfully. “Come on, I’ve just got time to help you into that wrestling suit and oil you up before your float goes.”

\--------------------------------  
JENNIFER

I always enjoyed Pride days, and this was one of the best. The weather was lovely and sunny, and Justin and I, along with Michael and Deborah, were just returning to the diner to share a cool drink after walking with the PFLAG banner. Justin himself was as fresh and sunny as the day. I always enjoyed the opportunity of being with him, just a little, in his world.

The parade itself, of course, hadn’t been completely fresh and sunny. I sometimes wondered how my son managed to stay so young and untouched in this environment.

Brian, for instance. He was so much older, and much more, well, more jaded.

Most the Liberty Avenue group of friends had been involved in the parade one way or another. Deborah, Michael, Justin and I were with the PFLAG group; Ben and Hunter were on the “Fighting AIDs” float; colorful Emmett had been very busy planning one of the day’s biggest parties; and even Ted was planning to meet us at the diner. Ted hoped to pop in for an hour or two before he went back to something important he had to do at work.

Brian, however, seemed content just to enjoy the pleasures of the day. Literally. He was waiting for us outside the diner as arranged, but draped around him was one of those .. one of Kiki’s friends, wearing scarlet lingerie, high heeled boots and a number of leather straps.

I know Brian has done so much for Justin, and I know Justin loves him, but I don’t understand how Justin could just giggle, seeing him stand there in broad daylight enjoying another person’s favors. And such a person.

I didn’t know whether to comment or not.

Deborah had no such inhibitions, “Brian, get your tongue out of her ear and get your ass in here. You’re supposed to be keeping us company.”

“Yes, Mother.” said Brian, but lowered his head back to whisper into his companion’s ear.

“Asshole!” Deborah huffed, but evidently decided she’d achieve nothing by trying to push further, so joined us in entering the diner. 

Inside, Ben greeted me with a “Hi, Jennifer, did you enjoy the parade?” 

“Very much, thank you.”

“All of it?” he asked with a sympathetic smile.

“Well, not quite all of it. It doesn’t really matter if people are straight or gay, I’m not really comfortable seeing overtly sexual behavior in public, especially in daytime.” I couldn’t resist a glance towards the group outside. However, I didn’t want to criticize Brian to his friends or Justin, so I went on. “I thoroughly enjoyed your float, though, Ben. It was a pleasure to view all those well-honed bodies.”

Ben smiled at me worriedly, I’m not quite sure why. 

Beside him, Michael said very quietly, mainly to Ben, “If he’s really an asshole he deserves what he’s called. And if he’s up to something it probably fits in with his plans for us to call him an asshole.”

Perhaps they were concluding a conversation they’d started before we came in.

Ben replied, “But it’s not really fair.”

“He doesn’t want fair. He wants things to work out the way he’s schemed.”

“But….”

“Yeah. That’s one reason I’m more comfortable with not voicing judgments; even if it would suit his plots. And even though sometimes I’m sure he fucking well deserves it."

Michael watched Ben's troubled face, then continued. "I do know that the one thing that would really get him pissed would be the kid being put in the spotlight.”

Ben suddenly relaxed and smiled at us again, “Sorry, Jennifer, just sorting out some family business. I’m sure you’re thirsty.”

We all were, and the thought of drinks was becoming very attractive.

It was clear Justin had become restless, though, and he wandered round without sitting down while the rest of us sorted out our orders. Suddenly he called out to the kitchen, “Make Brian’s and mine to go, will you?”

“What?” queried Brian, as he sauntered in and dropped into a seat in the next booth.

“I want to go to the park.”

“Uh huh. It’s Pride Parade day. All the action is here.”

“But it’s open and fresh in the park. I haven’t been there for ages and I’ve missed the wind in the trees and sunlight on the water for so long.”

“Sunshine….”

“Brian. The park. Pleeeeaase. We’ll be back long before the street dancing tonight. Pleeeaaase. Then I’ll dance with you.” He looked at Brian with puppy dog eyes.

Brian might be much older than Justin, and have a decided mind of his own, but one of the things I respected him for was his letting himself be influenced by Justin. He had long-sufferingly uncoiled himself from his seat and was collecting his order from the counter before he balked. “But the park has buskers.”

“Get over it.” Justin shoved him towards the door. “There could be violinists and mums and dads with squalling babies and kids playing ball and ..”

“All right, all right. Spare me the details. On second thoughts – there could be sherpa ants.”

“Sherpas?” muttered Michael to Ben.

“Himalayan high altitude guides,” murmured Ben with a grin.

“It’s too cold for ants,” objected Justin.

“Not sherpa ants.”

“We’ll be sitting on benches if we sit down.”

“Sherpa ants like heights.”

“Brian!”

“And pigeons with SCUD shi ..”

“SCUD? What’s that?”

“The senior Bush’s self-targeting weapon of choice in his Gulf War.”

“Oh. Old men’s stuff. So they always hit the right …..?”

They disappeared out the door. Beyond them, a hapless, beautifully suited Ted was fleeing down the street. He was being pursued by a gleeful transvestite wielding one of those inflated phalluses.

Well, if the afternoon was going to deteriorate into pranks like that, Justin was wise to choose a peaceful afternoon in the park.


	5. Mosaic

Brian probably thinks this is unsafe sex

* * *

“Mmf,” Justin huffed as his head fell back on the pillow, his sweaty blond hair still managing to catch some light from the window. “That was ..” he chuckled at his production of the usual word, “amazing.”

Brian rolled over, stretched out his back and combed his hair off his forehead with his fingers. He humphed, eyes closed and with a smirk on his face.

He agreed. Of course it was amazing. A hard dick, a healed shoulder, and Justin. . What else could he possibly need for a fuck to be amazing? 

Two balls, maybe. But since the one still in attendance seemed to be performing just fine, that might be considered a little picky. Though two balls would be nice.

And Justin; that was the main point; especially with Hollywood looming.

“Yep.”

“I mean, it’s always great but not having to worry about your shoulder or anything was great, squared.”

Or anything. “Yep. Better enjoy it while we can.”

“Um…”

Justin sat up. Shit, thought Brian, why did I say that? I hate that ‘we’ve got to talk’ face.

“We’ve got longer that we thought. Brett’s had his schedule put back again. Studio availability or something. They don’t want me out there for three more months.”

“Should give me stacks of time to dream up a way to keep you in Pittsburgh.” In the Loft. In this bed. With me.

“Bullshit.” Justin elbowed him irritably, “If I’d decided not to take up the offer, that’s when you would have been plotting and scheming, or just fucking pushing me off a cliff, to make sure I took it. To make sure that you, old man,” he glared at Brian, who grimaced at the customary jibe, “weren’t holding back that star of the future, Justin Taylor.”

True. Justin had got him exactly right. He had to go. Brian had known soon after he’d met Justin that the kid had serious talent. It was an ad exec’s fucking job, after all, to spot creative talent and use it for whatever stupid ad was needed next. He’d always known Justin’s talent would open doors far and wide, and that one day the blond would have to walk through them, just to satisfy his own creativity. 

Knowing all that and accepting it were two different things; which made Brian hate talking about something that wasn’t going to change even more.

“So,” Justin looked down at Brian’s blank face worriedly, “we need to talk.”

Yep, Brian hated that.

“About?”

“Um, you asked me to move in with you.”

“And you changed the subject pretty drastically.” That was when Justin had suddenly told him about Hollywood. “No big deal. We can still fuck.”

“Fuck you! This is difficult.”

Brian didn’t respond. He didn’t think any sarcastic comment about whether it was or wasn’t difficult for him would go down well. Justin was still going to Hollywood; and for some reason didn’t want to move in with him; and how would talking change either of those simple, basic, hard, unpleasant facts? So why talk? How soon could they get back to some straightforward enjoy-it-now fucking?

“Brian! Give me a break!”

“Am I saying anything?”

“Brian!”

“Just spit it out, Sunshine. Tiptoeing round the subject won’t make it any better in the long run.”

“So can I move in, even if it’s only for three months?”

What? Had Justin been thinking that moving in and going to Hollywood was some either/or equation? They were totally independent to Brian. One was fucking Hollywood on the other side of the fucking country. The other was Brian opening up for the first time in a long time, taking an emotional risk, without even being cornered into it by some situation or all-seeing ex-twink. And then having his offer ignored.

Brian hadn’t really thought of the possibility that Justin might have tangled the two up together. That would have required talking. Talking about Justin’s apparently rejecting him. 

But Justin hadn’t rejected him. He was sitting there cross-legged on the bed, waiting for an answer, asking if he could move in.

“I never specified a time minimum.”

“Brian!”

“Three months or three days or three years. There’s no guarantee of any of those, Justin. If you want to move in, move in now; and if you want to move out tomorrow, move back out. At the risk of being repetitive, it’s your call, Sunshine.”

“Brian! It’s NOT just my fucking call. Do you want me to?”

“I asked you. And I haven’t served you a notice withdrawing that since.”

“Brian!” Justin thumped him in the ribs again, and then settled back down beside him, stretching alongside his body skin to skin.

“That’s been my name the last seven times you called me that. I don’t know why you’re still checking.”

“Fuck you. It could be a lot of disturbance for just a short while,” shifting up just enough to draw circles on Brian’s stomach while he watched his face.

“It’s a lot of disturbance when you’re not here. If we’re not playing telephone tag you’re heading off when you don’t really want to because you’ve left shit you need somewhere else.”

“But we still manage to be together for all the important highs and lows.”

“Some flat bits might be nice,” somehow Brian’s hand had drifted into the blond’s hair, attempting to twine short strands round his fingers. 

“Flat bits? Never! I’ve just been enjoying some of your best hard bits.”

“Fuck you. You know what I mean.” His arm dropped back over his head and he looked at the ceiling while he continued, “When things are really good or bad we’re busy thinking about what’s happening. If you were around for more of the flat bits we could enjoy just being us.”

“Brian …”

“Again?”

“That’s …” Justin squared his shoulders, “OK, I’m moving in tomorrow.”

“Right. So can we stop talking and start fucking?”

“Um ..”

Oh no. That was the trouble with this talking shit. One subject was never enough. Let Justin start talking, encourage him by actually responding a little, and the blond would take it as a carte blanche to push even further.

“While I’ve got you in the sappiest mood I’ve ever known you ….”

“Who says?”

“Me. That ‘enjoying just being us’ line was definitely the sappiest thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

Um. Brian had a problem. If he denied that what he’d said was sappy, would Justin then challenge him to specify something else Brian had said, which he considered was sappier? This could get very murky, with Justin having a lovely time laughing at him.

He hoped he temporised with a long-suffering, “What did you want?”

Justin sat up again and turned to face him. Brian had propped up a leg as he moved, and Justin leaned against it, his armpit tucked comfortably over Brian’s knee, while his hand wrapped round and drifted down the taller man’s long thigh. 

“Well,” Justin trailed his fingers over the lean muscles of Brian’s stomach, “when are you going to let me have the only first time of yours I’ll probably ever get to have?”

“My first ti…..”

All Brian’s first times had been long ago. If Brian admitted it to himself, they had been less than stellar. Justin had every reason to value his first times, Brian conceded. He’d been there and they were spectacular. But his own first times had often been hurried, or rough, or uncaring. That didn’t matter, of course, they were all ancient history. So how could Justin be talking about a first time for a body that had done it all years ….

Except.. 

Oh.

The fucking ball. Well, the non-fucking ball.

“We’ve fucked a lot.”

“And waltzed straight past your ball. We haven’t really taken time for you to explore how it feels.”

“I might have.”

“Doesn’t count. The same as jacking yourself off doesn’t count. A proper first time needs someone there as well as you. So you can explore how I make you feel.”

Brian lay still and looked at him in silence. Not talking had worked well for him for years. And it had worked perfectly well on this subject too, so far. Maybe if he didn’t say a word, he could stick it out and just avoid the issue forever.

Justin’s eyelids drooped over those blue, blue eyes. He reached out and stroked the knuckles of his other hand down Brian’s cheek. “Go on. Be brave,” he whispered.

Avoiding the issue was possible. Avoiding Justin was not. Well, maybe, since it was Justin’s perceptive blue eyes, just maybe, he didn’t have to try. Maybe he didn’t want to.

Brian sucked in his lips while he held Justin’s gaze with his own for a long minute. Then his head dropped back a little and his mouth opened as his breathing rate lifted a notch. Still without speaking, still returning Justin’s regard, he slowly dropped his knee open across Justin’s legs.

Justin, adjusting with him, supported his own weight on his arm now spanning Brian’s hips. With a fleeting cheeky grin, he glanced up, “You can always say your safe word if you need to.”

Brian had never needed to say it, but years ago the then twink had insisted that if he had one, the older man should have a safe word too.

He felt like saying it right now.

But Justin’s attention, quiet and absorbed, had returned to his fingertips wandering gently across Brian’s stomach. They moved lower, tangling in his pubic hair, then tracing the small scar in his groin.

“It’s hard to see the scar now the hair’s grown back. Does it feel different?”

“It’s numb just above the scar, but that’s gradually fading.”

“So, if I move from here…” fingernails sliding “to here…., the sensation intensifies?”

“Mmmmf. You could say that.”

Justin shifted position to between Brian’s legs. 

“And this?” Teeth nibbling, and the anticipation of feeling them, knowing they would intensify too, heightened the sensation as they travelled, so slowly, from the less responsive area above the scar to the always sensitive skin near the base of his dick.

“Ng.”

Justin slid one of his legs underneath Brian’s open knee, easing the leg up and out to give himself even better access. His fingers drifted further.

“It’s nice not having any scars down here.”

“Ngh.”

“You still feel that, don’t you?” stroking lightly over his ball-less ball. 

“The skin, yes. But it’s weird.”

“Bad?” fingers lifting quickly.

“No. I don’t think so. No.”

The hand began exploring gently again, “But?”

“The skin’s still sensitive, that’s nice. But there’s no kick inside. It doesn’t start that deep pull up.”

“Like this?” The hand had moved to the other side.

“Nnnnggghhh”

“Definitely a different response,” a warm chuckle teased Brian’s inarticulate response.

“So,” back to the ball-less ball, “just nice? Shit word.”

“No. It’s good. But it’s weird. In a way I can feel you more, because I’m not dragged inside myself by the deep kick.”

“Mmmm,” the firm strong hand shifted to cradle and weigh both balls, together, then separately. “Still a good palm-full.”

“Uh.” Should be some coherence left, this hasn’t been going long. “Doesn’t really feel the right weight from this side.”

“Do you notice it?”

“Now, only when I think about ….. Justin!”

The blond had slid down the bed, and his head was now dropped so he could mouth the balls cradled in his palm. God that was good.

Justin was previewing his caresses on the ball-less ball before the same touches on the other induced that deep drawing up. Anticipation spiralling with sensation had Brian arching and spreading to give Justin any and all access he wanted.

To distract himself from the licking and oh-so-gentle nibbles that threatened to tip him straight over the edge, Brian muttered, “This is going to be a fucking quick first time if you………Aaaaaah!”

Brian screamed.

“You bit me!”

Justin looked up at him, grinning devilishly.

“You fucking bit me! You fucking bit my ball!”

“Only the plastic one!”

“You fucking bit my ball!”

“I’ve wanted to do that forever!” the grin grew even more fiendish. “You’re not in agony. Look, you’re so hard!” 

Brian stared, still dumbfounded, at the satisfied imp before him, who was gazing lustfully at Brian’s erect, admittedly rock hard, leaking dick. Overcome by fury he grabbed Justin, hauled him up the bed, shoved him on his face and held him down, a forearm across his shoulders and a knee on his ass, while he slid a condom on his own demanding dick.

Justin’s laughter turned to a gasp and yelp as Brian yanked up his hips and thrust straight into him. 

“You” slam

“fucking” slam

“bit me” slam.

“You” slam

“fucking” slam

“bit” slam

“my ball” slam.

“You …oh god!” Brian convulsed over the blond’s shaking back.

It was hard to tell if Justin was shuddering more from the fucking, his orgasm, or his laughter.

Brian was shaking as well, from the intensity of the fucking, or still trying to deal with the shock.

He propped himself where he was over Justin, his mind still trying to process what had happened, trying to catch up with his body’s furious actions. One moment he had been open, vulnerable, immersed Justin’s caresses, the next, fired by the bolt of terror that had shot through him when he realised Justin was biting hard on his ball, he was driving the fucking, rutting and coming forcefully, mindlessly.

He rolled off Justin, having difficulty dealing with the condom because of his trembling hands.

He tried to think of something to say. Anything to distract both of them from the realization that that his overwhelming orgasm had been trigged by Justin’s fiendish compulsion.

“You could have done some damage.”

Justin settled back on the pillows, still with that wicked grin “Nah. I practiced.” He reached over and grabbed some tissues to clean themselves up.

“You fucking practiced?”

“Well, I’ve been tempted for years. I knew I’d succumb sooner or later now I had an opportunity.”

“You fucking practiced?”

“Student Health has some props.”

“Student fucking Health…”

“Student Health decided to ask no questions when their props were returned anonymously, intact, a few days after they were stolen.”

“Fuck.”

“Done that. Um …” Justin sobered for a minute, “still going to let me move in?”

Again, Justin had a talent for muddling independent things. Brian wanted Justin to move in because he wanted Justin to move in. Biting his ball had earned Justin some serious payback, but that had nothing to do with wanting him around. Wanting to be around him. Wanting there to be ‘just us.’

“Might be safer. I can keep you occupied so you have less time for brewing weird obsessions.”

“I didn’t actually plan on doing it your first time, though,” with a sidelong grin that contained perhaps one percent apology.

In spite of himself, Brian started to laugh. 

“Your idea of a first time is bizarre, Sunshine. 

“Now not only do I have to be afraid of being seen as .,” he paused. He supposed he could say it, “be afraid of being seen as mutilated,” Justin chuffed a laugh while sweeping an appreciative glance down Brian’s body, “… or neutered” this time Justin’s laugh was accompanied by a sensuous wriggle, “but I get to live in terror that one day you’ll mistake my right side for my left.’

He attempted to glare, “You’ll do it again, won’t you.”

“Maybe. One day. When you leeaast expect it!” Justin settled down, ready to catch some sleep. “By the way, did I tell you dyslexia runs in our family?”

Two balls would be safer.


End file.
